Before Dawn
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: When you can't see with your eyes, sometimes you see other ways.


_For R  
First appeared in _The Brotherhood 3 _(2007), from Pyramids Press_

**Before Dawn**  
K Hanna Korossy

"Dean, what do you see?"

_"Uh…"_ There were a few more wet splashes as Dean's boots sloshed through the mud, then the sound stopped. _"Okay. Alvin and Renee Spofford, beloved husband and wife, born yadda, yadda. This is it. And, hey, looks like we got lucky—it's a twofer." _

Sam smiled a little at the _we_. It wasn't like he'd be doing any digging. "Means you'll have to pull one coffin out to get to the other," he reminded.

_"Yeah, but I only have to dig one hole." _Dean sounded inordinately pleased, and Sam reflected yet again how weird their life was that double graves were a source of happiness.

"Just be careful," he reminded Dean. "I'm not there to watch your back."

_"I _have_ done this alone before, you know," _Dean said, the soft clink of metal announcing the shovel's presence, then a soft _sploosh_ as he jammed it into the mud_. "Besides, you're there, just…farther back." _

And not watching a thing, but Sam didn't say it. He slid down a little in the Impala's seat, vinyl squeaking under him, and his fingers flexed around the phone as he listened to Dean dig. "Put the phone down, all right? It'll be easier." He could just imagine Dean's contorted position, phone wedged against his shoulder. Sam had brought up the idea of earpieces once, but Dean had just shot him an incredulous look and that was that.

Dean paused. _"All right, but I'm turning the volume up. Holler if you need something." _

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, and heard the _scritch_ of the phone being set down, probably on a gravestone. In the distance, digging recommenced with wet slurps and scrapes and the occasional curse from Dean. Overlying all was the soft patter of the late night rain, but Sam wasn't sure if he was catching it through the phone or the windshield. His hearing had already sharpened in the two days since it and touch had become his most relied-on senses, but it was still hard to put together mental images of stimuli he was used to confirming with a glance.

Sam sighed, reaching up with his free hand to rub very lightly over his bandaged eyes. They itched a little but otherwise didn't hurt, not physically. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually…totally different story.

He turned away from the thought, let himself drift on the hypnotic sounds of rain and his brother digging up a grave.

Dean had pried the crystal off Sam's watch so he could tell the time, and his fingers immediately strayed there when he heard the phone being moved again. Almost two hours; not one of Dean's best times. The softened ground would have helped less than the inevitable caving and mudslides would have hindered. Sam wasn't too sorry to be missing this one, actually, and his mouth twitched as the first several words out of Dean's mouth were ones the little old lady he'd schmoozed at the diner that evening would have been shocked to hear.

"Messy?"

_"Dude, I feel like a mud pie." _

"Gee, I'm really sorry I can't help."

_"Yeah, I'll bet," _Dean grumbled. _"I'm gonna pull the coffin out so I can burn both of 'em at the same time. Have to move fast or the rain'll put out the fire." _

"Sounds good. Everything okay?"

_"Besides my having mud in every—"_

"Dean!" he said quickly. "TMI, man."

His brother sounded amused now. _"Yeah, I'm cool. Be back in a few." _

Another scratch of phone on stone. Sam strained to hear every sound, to map Dean's progress by ear. He heard the soft grunts and heaves, then the hollow sound of wood hitting mud. Lifting a coffin by yourself was no picnic and something he would have put past most people who weren't his brother. But the couple had been buried decades ago in what Sam was pretty sure would be simple pine boxes, half-rotted by now. Not impossibly heavy. Still, he itched to go help, rain and mud and all.

A loud splash and suck announced the complete removal of one coffin. Next was the sound of wood smashing under the shovel's sharp blade. Sam traced his brother's actions in his mind: break one coffin, then the next, quickly splash both sets of bones with lighter fluid, then one flickering match into each… The _woomph_ of catching flames came right on cue.

The yell didn't.

Sam leaned forward, his grip suddenly convulsive. "Dean!"

There was a scramble of sound and a shriek that could only be described as unearthly. Next to Sam on the seat, the EMF meter exploded into beeps and squeals.

Sam grimaced, clutching the phone and his one link to his brother. Jerking away when a shotgun blast roared over the line, then holding it close again.

At the other end, the phone was fumbled and Dean's voice returned, tight and breathless. _"Got a little problem here, Sam." _

"I can hear it—what?"

_"Doesn't look like Alvin and Renee want to go peacefully." _

"What? Didn't you burn the bones already?"

_"Ashes, dude. I think it just made them mad." _

"But that's—"

_"Impossible? Tell that to—whoa!—them." _

Sam's mind cast around frantically for a solution. "Okay, uh…maybe we have the wrong graves. I mean, just 'cause it's the Spofford home and they died violently—"

_"I recognize them from the pictures, Sam—it's them. And Alvin looks really ticked." _

"Okay, uh… Read me what's on the gravestone again."

"_Seriously?"_

"Dean!"

_"Okay, okay. Uh, 'Alvin and Renee Spofford, beloved husband and wife. Alvin born 1902, died 1959, Renee born 1904, died 1959. Rest in peace'—yeah, right. Then there's some kind of design." _

Sam straightened. "Tell me what it looks like."

Dean described it in terse words, the circle with the flowing— Sam knew this one. He wracked his brain for it, wished for a second he could flip their dad's journal open, but instead concentrated on remembering the pages.

And flinched as it came back. "Dean, that's a binding symbol—it's keeping them here. You have to destroy the symbol."

_"On the headstone?" _Dean asked incredulously.

"Yeah."

_"Son of a…" _

Sam heard Dean start moving again: squishing mud, the clatter of shovel against rock, cracking noises. A startled yell from his brother.

The spark and static of the phone shattering.

"Dean!" Sam yelled into his anyway, already knowing it was useless but unable not to try. He waited for a tense moment, listening for a sound, any sound.

The rain splattered lightly around him, otherwise it was quiet.

Sam dropped the phone and shoved the car door open, standing up between it and the car, casting his senses outward. Straining to hear Dean yelling, the headstone breaking, anything besides the rain.

Nothing.

Okay. Okay, he could…call for help. No matter what happened afterward, police and ambulances helped if you were injured. He and Dean could deal with the fallout later. But if Dean was just pinned under a supernatural attack, bringing civilians into it could make things worse. Not to mention Dean's ire if Sam involved the police for nothing. No, he needed more information.

He needed to know his brother was all right.

Cursing his blindness, Sam stepped around the car door, keeping his hand braced on the car as he moved to the front fender, still trying to hear any sign of his brother. "Dean!" he yelled.

Seconds passed.

Okay. He could do this. Dean had said the graves were at eleven o'clock, trying to give Sam some sort of mental image. Not intending Sam to follow, because they both knew how hard it was to keep your bearings when you couldn't see where you were going. But he had no choice. Dean could be…could be trapped, or hurt, or…worse. Sam had to go.

He took an unsteady step forward slightly to the left, then firmed his step and took another.

He hadn't left the motel room the first day, navigating only between bed and bathroom, and even that under Dean's watchful eye. If Dean hadn't heard in the diner about the string of "suicides" at the local bed & breakfast, they wouldn't have even left the room at all, but Sam had insisted they needed to do this and he could tag along and stay in the car for the simple salt-and-burn. Famous last words.

Sam put his hands out in front of him, sliding forward another few steps.

Dean had led him out to the car like he'd done this before, one hand subtly at Sam's elbow, guiding him without making him feel _blind. _Dean was the one who'd made those last two days bearable. Heck, he was the one who'd made the last twenty-two years bearable.

Sam was not losing him now.

His questing fingers found the first of the gravestones and, emboldened a little, he moved forward, carefully checking his heading with each step.

In the distance, he thought he heard a soft clink, maybe metal against stone.

"Dean!" he yelled again, not caring if anyone else was around to hear. If they were out in the cemetery in the middle of the night in the rain, they probably weren't going to care about him.

There was no response. Sam kept going, moving a little faster.

Probably not the best decision. Two more steps, then a slight depression in the grass caught Sam unaware. His foot slid in it, sending him sprawling onto a stone slab, scraping layers of skin off his hands and knees as he caught himself.

And completely turning him around.

Sam froze in disbelief a long moment, craning his head, trying to replay the last few seconds to figure out which way he'd been facing. But he wasn't sure; the fall confused his sense of direction. He tried to calm his breathing and cast his hearing outward, searching for some clue as to his goal… But it was no use. All he could hear was the patter of the rain. Direction had already been tenuous, and now it was a snapped thread.

He couldn't keep going. For all he knew, he'd be heading away from Dean, out into a road, into some place he'd really get hurt instead of just trapping himself on this stone island, helpless and useless and with tears burning his eyes. Sam pushed himself up to his aches knees and called out "Dean!" once more. This time it was the cry of a plaintive little brother needing help, not a partner coming to the rescue.

Maybe not so miraculously, that was the call Dean answered.

"Sam?"

His brother's voice was perhaps a few dozen feet away, but Sam's head snapped up, realigning himself to it as he always did to Dean. "Dean? I'm here."

"Got it." A few seconds later he could hear the footsteps, a little uneven like Dean was limping, but hurrying and solid. Another second, and hands clamped around Sam's upper arms. "You all right?" Dean's voice, deep and concerned. One hand let go to finger the torn knees of his jeans.

He was cold, humiliated, relieved, tired. "I'm fine. You?"

"Few bruises." Gently turning Sam's hand now, inspecting the palm.

Sam pulled it away. "What happened?"

"You were right about the headstone, Alvin and Renee just didn't want to go," Dean brushed it off, and Sam knew that was all the detail he was going to get. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah." He lifted his hands to grip Dean's arms in turn, then let himself be levered to his feet, hissing only a little when torn flesh complained. There was no elbow-holding now, Dean's grasp of his arm tight and unyielding as he guided Sam back toward the car, moving them gently around graves and other obstacles.

Embarrassment was slowly giving way to frustration. Which, of course, came out as anger. "No lecture about me getting out of the car?"

"Nope."

Sam deflated. Dean would say it if he had to, but he didn't; they both knew why Sam had stupidly ventured after him, and Dean wasn't going to take Sam to task for being scared for him. He was a good brother that way, while Sam…Sam was baggage.

The Impala's door creaked a welcome, and Dean paused a moment, moving something around before he eased Sam inside, one hand on top of his drenched head. It took Sam a second to realize his brother had been spreading a blanket over the seat. He pulled the edges around himself and slunk down, tracing Dean's progress around the front of the car, then the spread of another blanket before he eased inside.

Sam pulled out of his self-pity long enough to ask, "You sure you're all right?"

"Right as rain, dude," Dean answered way too cheerfully.

Sam groaned, still miserable. But maybe a tiny bit less than he had been before.

00000

Back at the room, Dean gave him a light shove toward the bathroom. By the time Sam reached it, his brother was bundling some clean, dry clothes into his hands. For all he knew, Dean was dressing him in his old band t-shirts, but Sam somehow doubted his brother would take advantage of him like that. Yet.

At least he could do _this_ blind. Sam stood under the shower and raised his wet gauze-covered eyes to the spray. Five more days, the doctor had said. It hadn't seemed much then, a week, especially after what Sam had feared on the way in to the hospital. In the field, Dean had washed his eyes out with every bit of water they had on them, both the holy and the Deer Park varieties, but still there'd been nothing but blurs and shadows before the hospital had bandaged him up. A week, the doctor had said, and Sam had pictured a lot of sleep and listening to the radio and sitting outside in the sun. Not listening to Dean be attacked while being utterly helpless to go make sure he was okay. Suddenly, a week seemed interminable. And that was assuming…

Sam blanked his mind, soaping and rinsing, then drying himself efficiently. He recognized the feel of the shirt as he pulled it over his head, the whippet one Jess had given him, and his flannel boxers. Comfort clothing, to match the cocoa and pancakes and fried chicken Dean had been bringing back the last few days. Providing comfort the only way Sam would accept without embarrassment.

Feeling fractionally less disconsolate, he stepped out of the bathroom.

Dean patted his arm as he passed him on the way in for his own shower. "Take the bandages off but don't open your eyes. I'll be out in a minute."

It was, indeed, one of the faster showers in Dean Winchester history, probably far shorter than Dean could have used after all the cold rain and mud. Still, Sam felt exposed sitting on the bed, waiting, eyes feeling swollen and aching with itch. He was tempted to peek, just to make sure…but no. He wasn't going to do anything to risk his recovery.

Dean still sounded like he was slightly limping, and Sam focused on that instead as he felt his brother sit across from him, knees brushing Sam's, and the first pad of gauze was pressed lightly over his right eye. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"Banged my knee. No big deal, Sam."

"I should've been there."

"Yeah, because you shooting at it blind would've been such a good plan."

"No, I mean…" His hand balled into a fist. Impotent—he felt impotent. A burden instead of a help.

"I know what you mean," Dean said quietly. He was leaning over Sam now, winding a strip of gauze around his head. The tape the hospital had applied originally had irritated Sam's face and kept peeling off. "It was a stupid idea, all right? You should've never been out there like that. We're not going hunting again until you're up for it."

Sam bristled. "Dean, we can't just—"

"It's _five days_, Sam. We've taken longer breaks to heal up."

"What if it's not?" Sam whispered. "What if it's permanent?"

"It's not permanent. The doctor said a week and you'd be fine."

"The doctor said _probably_." Dean, of course, had taken that as a practical guarantee, while Sam had heard only the possibility of failure.

"Sam, you'll be fine." Sam's eyes rewrapped, Dean gently straightened out his leg to look at his knee.

"What if I'm not?"

"Then we'll _stop_!" Dean suddenly snapped.

Utter silence. Sam would have been staring at him if he could have.

He could almost feel Dean's shoulders sag. "Then we'll stop, all right?" he repeated softly.

"Dean…you need hunting. That's all you ever wanted to do." They'd just talked about this a few weeks before in Chicago, about how Sam wanted to move on but Dean didn't…couldn't. Ironic how swiftly the tables had turned.

"Yeah, well…maybe I need something else more," Dean said gruffly. "Besides, you're gonna be fine."

It was bravado and desperate hope and not being able to face anything else. It was also the first thing in two days that gave Sam any hope.

"Dude," Dean finally broke the silence, sounding unexpectedly whimsical, "you know how long it's been since I cleaned your scraped knees?"

00000

It was disconcerting, waking from Technicolor dreams to the blackness of reality, almost like it was backwards somehow. Sam lay for a minute wondering if he was even really awake or just in another layer of sleep. The slap of his leg jolted him out of his musings.

"Rise and shine, cupcake. I brought you something."

Sam groaned and levered himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He felt foggy, like he couldn't quite wake up if he couldn't see the sun. Of course, considering it had been nearly dawn when they'd straggled in, the sun was most likely going down by now. Being blind was probably one of the less weird aspects of their life.

Something smallish, shrink-wrapped and rectangular, was shoved into his hand. Sam gave it a wary shake, then looked up to about where he figured Dean would be hovering and grinning. "Gee," he said dryly, "it's a box."

"Not just any box, Einstein," Dean answered. "Dude at the computer store said that program'll read any website for you. You're on your own with the porn, but I figure research, those long books you like, anything with words you can probably do."

He heard the slightest note of uncertainty in Dean's voice, the not being sure how Sam would take the gesture. And there was a…sinking inside him at the thought they were doing more than just removing a watch-face and eating in and getting an electric shaver for him in order to compensate for his current state. This wasn't coping, this was _adjusting_, and he didn't want to adjust, didn't want to think about needing to adjust. Just four more days, right?

Four more days in which he wouldn't be so utterly bored and useless. Four days in which he could at least _do _something.

Sam had to clear his throat to talk. "You're just sick of reading to me, aren't you?" he said.

"Yeah, Sam," and Dean's voice was warm, "that's the only reason I got it."

00000

You could learn a lot in a week.

Like how much funnier a lot of TV shows were without the pictures to go with the sound. Or how much worse motel rooms smelled when the ridiculous wallpaper patterns weren't there to distract you. Or how good fresh, hot pancakes bathed in syrup tasted when you weren't busy rolling your eyes at your brother's attempts to charm the waitress.

How every growl of the Impala's engine and dip in her seat was familiar now, and how Dean's voice grew the slightest bit more gravelly when he talked about something he felt strongly about, which in that week included the Impala's performance, their dad's journal, the near-religious experience he'd had with the waitress, and Sam's lack of sight. Sam didn't take the categorization personally. He could also hear beneath Dean's patience the smothered frustration at their inactivity, the concern over Sam's well-being, the fear for their future. Heard it all underneath, because it never came to the surface in more than an occasional pat on his back or offer to do a crossword puzzle with him.

Sam tried out the new software, found them their next job, did every bit of research he could think of for it, and then just waited. And tried not to worry.

They sparred daily, Dean coaching him on how to use his other senses to compensate for lack of sight. On the fifth day, he took Sam out somewhere very secluded and let him empty a couple of magazines into some unseen targets, a few of which even shattered satisfyingly. For the first in a long time, it felt _good _to have a gun in his hand.

Winchesters would always be hunters. The mantra that had long made Sam despair was almost comforting now.

Still, he was scared that seventh morning.

The warmth on his face was feeble, the sounds outside muted. Birdsong warbled from somewhere behind the motel strip. It was early, and Sam made himself relax and lie still. They could sleep through each other's morning ministrations, but Dean had been more tuned to him than usual the last week and would probably rouse when Sam did. And he needed the rest. If this worked, they were off to the next job, and if it didn't…they'd both need strength.

Sam's fingers balled up the sheet under him, feeling the stiffness of the starch and the cool of the fabric. Nothing familiar about it except for the familiarity of a different bed each week. He had no home to retreat to if he really ended up blind, no comfort in the known besides one car and one brother.

"Man, you realize it's not even six, right?" came a sleepy, cranky voice from the bed next to him.

Sam smiled. Then again, who else had their home with them wherever they went? "Go back to sleep, Dean," he whispered.

But Dean was already stretching, sitting up. "And, technically, it won't be a week for another…four hours."

Sam grabbed a pillow from beside him and threw it with unerring aim before he sat up.

"Hey, you sure you're not peeking?" Dean grumbled, but he was towing Sam up and over to the table by the door. He nudged Sam into one chair, pulled the other up close until Sam could feel the warmth of his brother's breath and hear his stomach growl.

His mouth twitched up.

"You laugh, and I'm leaving you here to get breakfast first."

Sam obediently sobered, took a deep breath.

A hand wrapped warmly around the side of his neck. "You ready for the big unveiling?"

"Just do it, Dean," he begged.

A light squeeze. "Don't forget, this doesn't change anything." Dean started unwrapping.

They were supposed to return to the same doctor, of course, for this part, but she was three states back and would know by now that Samuel Plant's insurance was no good. Besides, Sam didn't want anyone else here for this part. Dean had always watched his back when he was vulnerable, and would this time, too, no matter what happened.

Sam gulped thickly, feeling sweat slide down the nape of his neck as he clutched the edge of the chair. Remembered the pain of the venom hitting his eyes, the shock of darkness, the steadying touch of Dean's hand, the feeling of helplessness in the graveyard, his declaration in Chicago of his intent to leave the hunt and go back to school, and Dean's recent vows. Felt his heart hammer hard enough to burst as Dean got down to the patches of gauze and carefully peeled them away.

Sam opened his eyes.

00000

He'd made an effort to memorize the menu after the fourth time Dean had read it to him, and didn't need to look at it now. Sam smiled up at the waitress, whose smile was pretty much as amazing as Dean had described, and ordered hash browns and coffee and waffles and sausages, ignoring Dean's amused lift of the eyebrow. He could feel his brother's enjoyment even once he tipped his eyes back down to the table, tracing the Formica swirls he'd only guessed at before.

"Your face is gonna break if you keep smiling like that," Dean offered.

"It just…it all looks good, Dean. You try it sometime," Sam answered absently.

"Yeah, think I'll pass on that." Sam started to pull the dark glasses off, and Dean pushed them firmly back into place with one finger. "Leave 'em. Don't want to overdo it right away."

"Yeah, all right." Sam fidgeted in his seat, feeling restless, _alive. _He knew he was entertaining Dean and didn't care.

"So, it's all clear, sharp, in color?"

"Still a little fuzzy, but the doctor said that was normal."

"Oh, now you believe her." Dean shook his head and took a long drink of coffee.

Sam grinned at him.

The food arrived and Sam dove in, sight enhancing taste this time instead of distracting from it. The steam rising from the food, the creamy balls of melting butter, the chunky mounds of jam…

Dean laughed. "Dude, you need some quiet time with your breakfast?"

Sam muttered a cheerful _shut-up_ and kept eating.

He didn't really notice that Dean wasn't doing the same until he came up for air about halfway through the meal, realizing for the first time that his brother had only ordered eggs and toast. A new idea occurred, and Sam swallowed hard. "Oh, God, Dean, I never thought…staying here for a week, and the software, and you sticking around to babysit me…we're out of money, aren't we?"

Dean blinked at him, looking honestly surprised. "Don't worry about it, Sam, we're fine."

"Oh." Sam hesitated, reassessing Dean's restrained behavior. Was it the being stuck in one place so long? Sam cleared his throat. "I'm, uh, ready to hit the road whenever."

"Okay," Dean said unconcernedly.

Sam started eating again, reluctantly giving up for now. Dean had his own timing as to when he shared what was on his mind. Pushing only succeeded in annoying him and shutting him down even more.

Dean shifted in his seat. "You know, we could still stop."

And, apparently, that time was now. Sam set his fork down, gave his sibling his complete attention. Feeling his gut tighten with something other than unease. He knew what Dean was talking about, and how huge an offer it was. "Do you want to stop?" he asked.

"No." Dean's eyes met his for the first in a very long time, and Sam realized he'd missed this connection, this added layer, no matter how much he understood and got out of the other ways they communicated. "You know I don't. But…it shouldn't take having you go blind for us to consider it."

_Huge_. For the first time in ever, Sam was being given the choice. He could have his family _and_ his dreams. He gave that a moment to sink in, to wallow in it.

Then swallowed and gently set it aside.

"Not right now," he said. "I need to find the thing that killed Jess, and Mom. But after that…yeah, maybe. If we can find something we both want to do."

He glimpsed the start of surprised pleasure in Dean's eyes, the tiny bend of the lips. Dean wasn't used to being taken into account of anyone's plans.

But Sam could see how he felt just fine.

**The End**


End file.
